Fifty Years in Oregon was written by Theodore T.
Geer, a grandson of Joseph Carey Geer and a shirttail ancestor of
ours.

I have put much of the book on
this website. I started because several
chapters describe the early roots of our family history in Oregon. I
kept going because
I found many of the chapters from this perspective on the early
settlers and the history of Oregon to be quite
interesting.

Fifty Years in OregonEXPERIENCES, OBSERVATIONS, AND COMMENTARIES UPON MEN, MEASURES, AND CUSTOMS IN PIONEER DAYS AND LATER TIMES

Sylvester Pennoyer had been Governor of Oregon
for eight years when the campaign of 1894 began to command the attention of the
people of Oregon, and since the State Constitution forbids the same man
occupying the position of Chief Executive for more than two terms of four years
each in succession, it became necessary to search for new material with which to
fill that position. It had been suspected for two years that the retiring
Governor had cast a covetous eye on a seat in the United States Senate, and this
suspicion was verified in the spring of 1894 when he announced his intention to
canvass the State in support of his candidacy, in the hope of electing a
Democratic Legislature. He had been exercising a surprising influence over the
people of Oregon, principally by addressing himself to the farmers, appealing to
them for support and directly allying himself with them and their interests. In
his campaigns, he had adroitly planned his trips through the State in a way that
included the smaller towns, avoiding the cities, to which most public speakers
directed their main efforts. In this way, he met the farmers and, as a rule,
captured them in great numbers. He was one of the most effective campaigners the
State has ever known; for he was plausible and his solemn countenance would
carry conviction to the assemblage, which failed to detect the twinkle of the
eye that a closer inspection would always discover.

For this reason, and because of the victories
he had won in past campaigns in the face of apparently insurmountable obstacles,
the Republicans viewed with alarm the prospect of losing a seat in the United
States Senate. The term of Senator Dolph was expiring, and as he had from the
very beginning of the discussion of the question of free silver been an eloquent
and convincing advocate of the gold standard, the situation presented conditions
which appeared to contribute directly to Pennoyer’s success. There seemed to be
good reasons for fearing not only the loss of a Senatorship, but the election of
a Democratic Governor for the third time in succession in a strongly Republican
State.

William Galloway had been nominated by the
Democrats for Governor and he was an admittedly strong man. Against him, the
Republicans had chosen Judge William P. Lord, who for sixteen years had served
on the State Supreme Bench with great distinction. While a noted jurist and
having a splendid record, he was not a public speaker and was further
handicapped in making a State campaign by reason of his partial deafness.

Under these circumstances the Republican State
Committee invited me to make a canvass of the State, advocating Judge Lord’s
election. Having been a farmer all my life, it was thought that I had better be
sent on the trail of Pennoyer, who had already published his itinerary, to speak
in every town and locality where he had appeared.

To this request I consented, after some
well-grounded misgivings as to the wisdom of the course. I had never done any
campaigning outside of my own county, save a half-dozen speeches during the
Harrison campaign two years before, and it seemed a tremendous undertaking.
However, there was much at stake for the Republicans and I buckled on my armor
and “waded in.”

It was certainly a “red-hot” campaign,
practically every speaker in both, or rather all three of the political parties,
Republican, Democratic and Populist, taking some part in the contest, either
local or in the State at large. Governor Pennoyer was on the “stump” most of the
time for a month, visiting every part of the State, preaching the doctrines of
free silver, populism, where it would appear to do the greatest service to his
cause, and denouncing the “money power,” “gold bugs,” “centralization,” and the
“Crime of ‘73” with all the rhetorical vehemence he possessed.

Nathan Pierce, of Umatilla County, was the
Populist candidate for Governor, and Pennoyer supported both him and Galloway,
for during the last Pennoyer administration it was never quite made out whether
its chief was a Democrat or a Populist.

The result of this campaign was an easy
victory for Judge Lord, his majority being several thousand, and Sylvester
Pennoyer’s ambition to go to the United States Senate became but a dream. At the
end of his term as Governor, in January, 1895, he retired to private life,
though afterward he was elected Mayor of Portland and served in that capacity
for one term of two years.

On May 28, during the campaign in 1894, I
addressed a meeting at Arlington at eight o’clock in the evening. I had spoken
at Pendleton the night before and was due at La Grande the day after, but as
time was valuable and election day drawing near, it was decided that I should
run down the Columbia to Arlington and, after the meeting, take the night train
back to La Grande. The Columbia River was unusually high at that time and many
people advised me to abandon the Arlington meeting on account of the danger of
encountering a washout and thus rendering the return to La Grande impossible.
But the train was going to risk the run down and I took the chance.

As it proved, however, it was the wrong thing
to do, for the east-bound train did not come. The rapidly rising river destroyed
the track in several places and the next morning there was no connection from
Arlington with any point, either east or west, by rail, ‘phone or telegraph. It
was an uncomfortable situation, aside from the anxiety and vexation we
experienced because of our inability to fulfill our engagements. But we were
most effectually stranded. After vainly trying all day to hear something from
somewhere — anywhere — a cattle buyer (W. H. Daughtrey) and I hired a team to
take us to The Willows, nine miles above, where the Heppner branch makes its
junction with the main line. We hoped the train on that branch might make the
run, and if we could get to Heppner, some sixty miles away, we could go overland
to Pendleton and thus make our escape. But there was no train back to Heppner
and we were not so well off as at Arlington.

However, there was a small crew of men rigging
out a hand-car which they intended to take up the track some fifteen miles to
Castle Rock, and they informed us that if we were once there the station-keeper
would no doubt take us with his team to Umatilla Landing, which point was above
the damaged portion of the roadbed. And they added that if we would assist in
pumping the car that fifteen miles they would furnish us the transportation
without charge! Realizing that there was no alternative, we accepted the favor
(?) and took our places at the handles. The car was loaded with materials of
various kinds which were piled so high that it was impossible to see the men
working at the opposite side of the “engine.” To be candid, much of the time I
wondered whether there was any force being applied to the propelling power
except what I was furnishing myself.

I really believe that was the hardest single
piece of work I ever did. The grade up the Columbia on that stretch of track is
steep and the load was heavy. I had been inured to the hard work of a farm, and
for thirty years had managed one of my own, frequently putting in twelve and
even fifteen hours a day mowing, harvesting, plowing, making rail and cordwood,
fencing and digging postholes, but I was never so near “hollering enough” as
when we had made about five miles of that trip on an R. & N. hand-car. I was
standing on the rear end of the platform, which projected barely enough for a
foothold, and after we had made about one mile, I was so entirely out of breath
that I was unable to furnish the least particle of motive power. Neither could I
let go of the handles, since they supplied me with the only purchase I had to
maintain my place on the four-wheeled bronco. I not only could not let go, but I
could not stop, even for a moment, the up-and-down motion of the handles. I was,
in fact, in great danger of falling off through sheer exhaustion when the
exigencies of the situation compelled me to call a halt until I could reorganize
my scattered forces.

After a short breathing spell, during which
the railroad men indulged in much sport at our expense (for Daughtrey showed
every sign of approaching physical dissolution when he emerged from behind the
mountain of supplies), we proceeded on to Castle Rock, where the men went on
after pointing out the station-keeper’s house. We roused him from his slumbers,
for it was then 11 o’clock, and told him our predicament — how we happened to be
there and that we wanted him to take us to the “Landing” the next morning with
his team.

“Team?” he said, in a very surprised tone;
“Why, I have no team here and never had. What would I want with a team here?”

And, sure enough, why should he keep a team?
Castle Rock was then ten miles from anywhere, in the middle of a cheerless
stretch of sand and sage-brush and not a tree nearer than forty miles. That we
had been taken in by the railroad men was then apparent, but the station-keeper
routed a part of his family out of their beds — where he put them we never could
determine — and we were made so comfortable that, crude as were our
accommodations, by contrast with the handcar experience they seemed superior to
those of the Waldorf-Astoria.

The next morning, after breakfasting at six
o’clock, Daughtrey and I settled down to a serious consideration of the
situation. It was Decoration Day, and as the sun came up over those burning
sand-hills its heat was enough to roast an egg — and it was twenty-five miles to
the Landing! Finally, I told my companion, in pure desperation, that I was going
to ask the good woman of the house to put up a luncheon for me — that I would
walk that distance — that I could by that means at least be at the Landing at
night — that it was only a matter of physical endurance and that I saw no other
way out of the dilemma — did he? His reply was that he could not walk that far
if his life depended upon it, and that I should, upon my arrival at the Landing,
send a man and team after him. This I agreed to do and started out up the track.
After proceeding two hundred yards, I heard a shout behind me. It proved to be
Daughtrey, who informed me that if I would wait until he could secure a luncheon
he would join me, since he couldn’t bear to remain at that “God-forsaken place”
alone.

For ten miles, we walked along the river
banks. As they were in many places submerged and the water backed out into
sloughs for two miles inland, we were often compelled to follow these to their
junction with the foothills and then return to the river, as they were too deep
to ford. At Coyote the track “cuts across” a bend in the river and for at least
ten miles there is no water in sight. Here we ate our luncheon, though it was
but ten o’clock, and then plunged into this desert walk. By this time, the heat
was frightful in its intensity. We had not proceeded more than three miles when
Daughtrey, whose business required much horseback riding, and who was therefore
unaccustomed to walking, even under sane conditions, began to lag behind. About
every half-mile there was a pile of newly sawed railroad ties which had been
dumped for repair work, and when one of these was reached Daughtrey would throw
himself across it in an attempt to cool off; but these short rests only served
to render his locomotion slower, with the result that within an hour he was
almost entirely disabled. He finally removed his trousers, hoping thereby to
gain some relief, and threw them over his shoulder while he trudged across that
desert with the perspiration streaming from his nose and chin.

Tired and hot as I was, I was in no such
condition as Daughtrey, but I verily believe that the contrast, which I
recognized, was all that kept me going. If this page could be illustrated with a
“snap shot” of Daughtrey, red of face, weighing two hundred and twenty pounds,
trouserless and blistered, it would be worth any reasonable sum of money.

When within six miles of the Landing we spied
the Columbia River but a mile away. Being almost famished, we debated whether it
would be better to go to the river and back for a drink, thus adding two miles
to our trip — and this seemed more than” we could endure — or whether we should
make that six miles without water. We looked at the river and at each other, but
the river presented much the more cheering prospect and we started in that
direction. Upon reaching it, we prostrated ourselves full length and drank as
only famished men can drink. I recall now bow thankful I was that an
unparalleled flood was on, since it guaranteed a sufficient amount of water to
satisfy our consuming thirst.

But this side trip was the final undoing of my
companion. He had cooled off, was as “stiff as an ox,” as he said, and was
wholly unable to go any further. After directing me to hire a liveryman at the
Landing and send him down, he flattened himself out on a pile of sage-brush and
collapsed utterly. But I had not proceeded far before I met a man with a team
and wagon, the latter bearing a hayrack filled with provisions which he was
taking to a crew of men who were working on an irrigating ditch. To him I
explained the situation, and as he knew Daughtrey he agreed to take us to the
Landing. We found Daughtrey in a sound sleep and in the midst of a fearful
nightmare. Upon seeing his friend he fell all over him, assured him that he was
the best looking man he had seen for a year, and offered to pay him in advance
for taking us to the Landing. We finally arrived there at seven o’clock, tired
and hungry, but thankful that we were alive.

After a hearty meal I went to my room at a
hotel and was proceeding to retire, though it was not yet dark, when there was a
vigorous rap at my door. It proved to be a messenger sent by a delegation of the
town people to invite me to participate in a debate. As several hundred persons
had been detained for two days in the town on account of the prevailing
conditions, with nothing to do, it was thought expedient to hold a political
meeting, particularly as Mr. Galloway, the Democratic candidate for Governor, W.
R. Holmes, nominee on the same ticket for Attorney General, and other prominent
politicians were among the visitors. As I could think of no plausible reason for
declining, I re-dressed myself (as that seemed to be the only redress
within my reach) and proceeded to the public hall where there was a joint debate
which lasted until midnight.

The next morning, before arising, while
thinking over the experiences of the preceding two days and nights, I wondered
why I was not at home attending to my every-day duties, amid normal and pleasant
surroundings, instead of engaged in campaign work for others, with no
compensation whatever — only my actual expenses being paid — while I hired out
of my own pocket a man to take my place on the farm! But, then, no man who
enters deeply into political life can justly claim to be in normal condition.

A special car was sent to Pendleton that day
to take a few of us there, and two days later I reached La Grande, where the
last meeting of the campaign was held on Saturday. I had gone to Arlington on
Monday and should have been in La Grande on Tuesday.

I remained in Union County for a week waiting
for the Columbia to subside, when I returned to Pendleton; but the railroad
tracks had not been repaired and the company sent all its passengers to Portland
by way of Walla Walla, Spokane and Tacoma. We made the trip from Kelso to
Portland on the Northern Pacific transfer boat.

On this campaign, though closely following
Governor Pennoyer, I saw him but once. He addressed the people at Heppner the
same night I was at Arlington. The next morning there was a train from Heppner
to the Junction and he arrived there, nine miles from Arlington, very early in
the morning. The fact is, there was nothing at the Junction except the mere
junction, and as no trains were running there was no place to go, nobody to see
and nothing to do. After looking about for a few minutes, His Excellency spied a
shack not far away which looked as if it might have an occupant.

To this he went and rapped on the door. There
was no response. Pounding again on the door with great vigor, he finally
succeeded in eliciting the inquiry, made in no gentle tone:

“Who the devil are you?”

The brogue smacked decidedly of the Emerald
Isle. Pennoyer replied in that peculiarly bland tone for which he was justly
famed: “I am Governor Pennoyer, and I would like to get a bite of breakfast.”

“Well,” said the voice inside the cabin, “I
have been up all night and am not going to get up now, not even for a Guv’ner.”

But Pennoyer insisted that he let him in, at
least, as there was no place to go. To this the Irishman responded:

“Ah, go on wid ye! As ye said to President
Cleveland, ‘You attend to your own business and I’ll attend to mine.’”

This was too much for the mirthful Governor.
Abandoning the siege, he turned his face toward Arlington, nine miles away, in
company with a companion who had listened to his interview with the Irishman,
and who reported the joke on His Excellency. I was standing on the main street
of Arlington about eleven o’clock on that day in conversation with a group of
belated pilgrims when we saw Pennoyer walking toward us, grip in hand, bearing
every evidence of excessive fatigue. When he reached us, I introduced him to the
little gathering and he told us of his experience, omitting, however, his
encounter with the son of Erin. He said that was the longest walk he had taken
in twenty years. He remained in Arlington for a day and night, then started for
Portland in a small boat, accompanied by three friends, and after many hardships
and several narrow escapes from drowning, arrived in Portland in time to cast
his vote on the following Monday.

During the prevalence of the Coxey’s Army
crusade just previous to this campaign, President Cleveland had advised many of
the Governors as to their duties in the management of the disorders it
occasioned, and to his message sent to Governor Pennoyer, the latter replied as
follows:

To the President:

Yours is received. If you will attend to your
business I will attend to mine.

SYLVESTER PENNOYER,
Governor.

This telegram was eminently characteristic of
Pennoyer, and his curt, not to say undignified, reply to the President caused
wide and unfavorable comment; but this only pleased the Governor. Because of his
loyalty to the gold standard, Pennoyer had a great loathing for the President,
and one year, in order to show his independence of the “Great Apostate,”
appointed a different day for the observance of Thanksgiving from that named by
him.

Next Chapter -
The presidential election of 1896 cast a wide swath through Oregon as the debate
over the "gold standard" versus free silver ended with McKinley as the victor.

If you are interested in finding this book, Fifty
Years in Oregon, it can
often be located at Powell's Books in Portland
which is one of the largest used book stores in the United States or, through the
Alibris service
which catalogs used books from stores across the country. For more information on the Geer Family, visit the Geer Family website. Other resources
and references include:

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